Addiction
by geniusalias
Summary: Sherlock is going through nicotine withdrawal, and John comes home smelling like cigarettes. Short and smutty.


Addiction

The withdrawal was crippling, a craving so deep he felt it in his bones. His every cell ached with the want. His fingers shook incessantly, yet his tongue sat like a stone in his mouth. His skin dripped with sweat, but was marked with gooseflesh. John had warned him about the effects that smoking had on the body, but lung cancer and corroded arteries seemed infinitely preferable to his current condition.

Sherlock tore at the nicotine patches, causing his usually fair skin to flare red. _Insufficient._ He hissed, exhaling a breath of disappointingly toxin-free air. He'd applied the patches not three minutes ago, but he discarded them as another failed distraction. Though the state of his body was unenviable, the state of his mind was far worse. Innumerable thoughts, all vying for his attention, and none of them worth an iota of it. Dull thoughts, uninteresting thoughts, predictable thoughts. That was why he needed to smoke.

_What most people don't realize is that nicotine is both a stimulant and a depressant. _He muttered to the empty room. _It invigorates the mind and body, whilst simultaneously calming the nerves. This is what makes it so habit-forming. _For good measure, he rattled off the periodic table, fidgeting in tedium. He was going mad with the yearning.

This was how John found him, sprawled across the sofa in disheveled dressing robes and chanting the elements and their atomic masses. The doctor was not unfamiliar with his flat mate's tantrums, but this one seemed particularly manic. He took care not to upset the tray of fingernails on the kitchen counter as he unloaded his groceries, unsure of how to proceed.

"Haven't got yourself a new case, then?" He called over his shoulder, feigning a casual tone. "I thought that one about the vanished countess seemed interesting."

"Profitable." Sherlock corrected him between a string of elements.

"Sorry?"

"You thought it sounded _profitable_. Not interesting. There's a difference. Francium, two-hundred and twenty-three point zero two…"

John sighed. "Some of us find profit interesting." He muttered, massaging his temple. "Fine then. Anything else? No new case? No new leads?

"Rutherfordium, two-hundred and sixty-five point twelve…" He continued. "Dull. They're all dull. _Embarrassingly _dull. Just like everything else!" He rolled over dramatically before returning to his prattle.

"Right. So you've been doing… _this_? All day?" The blond entered the living area hesitantly, hoping to find his empty cup and return to the kitchen without upsetting the other man.

Sherlock flopped back over, resting his chin on his cupped hand like a petulant child. "There isn't anything _better _to do. My mind is like a beehive, John. No- a hornet's nest." John rolled his eyes. "There are hundreds and hundreds of tiny insects, each as small and insignificant as the next, swarming about, buzzing like mad. And…" He stopped short when the doctor reached for his mug, which sat overturned on the table near the sofa.

Though John welcomed the silence, Sherlock's fixed stare unsettled him. "What?" He asked, suddenly self-conscious. "Have I got something on my jumper? Are you going to deduce which grocery mart I was at by the rubbish on my shoes?"

The pale eyes narrowed, flickering over the smaller man in ill-disguised scrutiny. Sherlock sniffed, his long nose crinkling, before coming to his conclusion. "You've been smoking!" He spat, taking another prolonged whiff.

"Wha- I have not been!" John protested, squirming uncomfortably as Sherlock continued to smell him. "I was just at the pub for lunch with an old mate. Must've gotten smoke on myself there. Will you _stop _that!?" The detective had lost all shame, risen from the couch, and was pressing his face into John's jumper, breathing deeply. "Get off!" He struggled against the thin arms, but they were locked tightly around him.

"It smells so _good_!" Sherlock groaned, his voice muffled against John's chest. The smoke was stale, but the burn in his nostrils was familiar and satisfying. He sighed in pleasure, crushing himself into John. It was then that he noticed the escalating heartbeat, the throbbing pulse echoing in his ears. John was trembling, as Sherlock had been only moments ago. There was sweat on the palms that had been pushing him away, and when he looked up, dilated pupils stared back at him. "John." He whispered, and the thoughts, the insects lowered their incessant hum. He itched with need, but it was different now. "John."

High on the fumes and low on the patience to suppress his desires, Sherlock pressed his mouth to the other man's in abandon. John responded urgently, twisting his fingers in Sherlock's curls and deepening the kiss with parted lips. He moaned softly when their tongues touched, and as his cries grew louder he had to pull away, tipping his head back. Sherlock's lips traveled to John's exposed neck. He took the sensitive skin between his teeth and nipped. John's hands, still tangled in Sherlock's hair, clenched tightly. "Sherlock…" He gasped.

The jumper, recently the object of Sherlock's lust, was quickly removed, along with the dressing robe. The seconds spent undressing were torturous, and Sherlock was sure he'd cum before his jeans reached his knees. Unclothed at last, the men toppled onto the sofa, a tangle of limbs and lips. He straddled John, and their crotches pressing together when he thrust his hips.

Sherlock was inexperienced, but instinct and trash telly told him what to do. He grazed John's collarbone, making bruises blossom like ivy. His tongue traced a nipple, left then right, causing the flesh to rise and stiffen. Downward still, he took John's erection in his slim fingers and circled the head gently. John bit his lip, but could not stifle a cry when Sherlock's lips enveloped his cock. Sherlock worked his mouth around the shaft, sucking softly at first, then more hungrily. The scent of smoke was long forgotten when John came messily, cum dripping down Sherlock's chin.

Later there would be a conversation. Sexualities would be established, intimacies would be denied, boundaries would be laid. But as Sherlock took in the sleeping doctor's smell- earl grey and aftershave and something uniquely _John_- it was apparent to him what, or rather who, his new addiction was.


End file.
